


The Haunted House Job

by FromTheMouthofKings



Category: Leverage
Genre: Action, Established Relationship, F/M, Haunted Houses, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, I tend to write the ot3 as somewhere between romantic and queerplatonic, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Season/Series 05, Whump, so this is going to be low-romance but very tender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-19 05:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29621334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FromTheMouthofKings/pseuds/FromTheMouthofKings
Summary: "Ooh, we're staying in a haunted house?" Parker asked, craning her neck to look up at the looming building."No such thing as haunted houses, Parker," Eliot grunted, though if there were, this house would be it.The front door opened up with a gentle groan and Parker smiled widely. "This is totally a haunted house. Hardison found us a haunted house to sleep in."Hardison said, "Well, maybe I did. Damn, I am good."*After a job goes vaguely southward, Parker, Hardison, and an injured Eliot lie low in an empty house.
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	The Haunted House Job

The rickety old two-story house was looming menacingly over the road, Eliot thought. Almost like it had a personality. Like its peeling green paint and its overgrown grass were weapons it was trying to subtly show off to the three of them, like its winking windows were watching them. Though maybe Eliot was just on edge, after their last job. He had wrenched his shoulder, badly, and bruised a few ribs, and Hardison had been shot at, though luckily the mark and his goons had missed. 

It had been a real estate mogul named Alexander Walker who was buying up old properties, quietly, and forcing out the tenants who lived there. Turned out, the man also had his fingers in the mob, and they hadn't seen it coming until it was almost too late. The con hadn't gone completely south, but it had gone sorta sideways. (Hardison kept saying, "sauntered vaguely southward" like that was supposed to mean something, but Eliot was refusing, on principle, to ask.) They had gotten the money for their client, but after that, they'd had to hightail it out of there without taking the time to make sure the mark was securely tied up so he couldn't come after them. And so, they had decided to lay low for a couple of days before trying to catch a flight back to Portland. Hardison had found them an empty rental house out of the city but close to the airport, and they had gotten here without attracting any attention. The house in question, though...

"Ooh, we're staying in a haunted house?" Parker asked, craning her neck to look up at the looming building.

"No such thing as haunted houses, Parker," Eliot grunted, though if there were, this house would be it. He had wanted to get Parker and Hardison and himself inside and off the street as quickly as possible, but something about this house was making him hesitate.

"Yes, there is!" Parker said, already up the front steps and picking the lock on the front door. "We've been in one! At that amusement park in Florida, remember, with the creepy clowns and the money laundering and the roller coaster that Hardison wouldn't go on?"

"Hey, how was I supposed to know that they weren't faking their safety reports as well as their financials? That place was hinky as _hell_ \--Eliot, you're with me on this one right?" Hardison had a bag slung over his shoulder and was climbing up the rickety wooden steps seemingly unconcerned by the threat of possible hauntings.

"Eliot rode on the roller coaster with me!" 

"I _meant_ ," Eliot said (his head was pounding and his shoulder hurt and his bandaged ribs were starting to ache again) "that there's no such thing as _ghosts_." 

The front door opened up with a gentle groan and Parker smiled widely. "This is totally a haunted house. Hardison found us a haunted house to sleep in." 

Hardison was wandering straight into the house, looking around at its dusty interior with something like awe. "Well, maybe I did. Damn, I am good." 

Eliot pushed himself up the front steps, because he'd be damned if he was letting Hardison out of his sight for a minute until they were all safely back in Portland, and he definitely wasn't letting them sleep in this creepy-ass house until he'd gotten a chance to check it over for lurking rich-people goons. 

Hardison had put his bags down on a dusty kitchen table, and Parker was already darting around looking at the rooms. 

Eliot dropped his bags heavily on to the floor and said "Parker--" then bit off the reprimand he had on his tongue to stay close, stay in sight until he had checked all the rooms. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back for a breath. Jesus, he was tired. All he wanted was to lay down on the ragged sofa in the front room and get some sleep, but that wasn't happening until he'd checked the place out and made sure Parker and Hardison got something to eat. Maybe not until he'd taken some more pain meds, too. 

He let out a breath and opened his eyes to find Parker hanging off the banister. She was grinning like trouble. "There's only one bedroom that's furnished, but it's got a really big bed so it should fit all of us. And look what I found!" She held up what looked like a porcelain doll, with delicately painted features and a pleated blue dress and fine, curly yellow hair. "I found her on the bed."

"Yeah, girl, that is definitely...cursed, very cursed." Hardison said, stepping hesitantly forward with a look of horrified fascination on his face. 

"I know! And Eliot said this house wasn't haunted!" 

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for patience. "It's not haunted. It's just a creepy doll. Put it back where you found it."

"Oh, no. Hell no. I am not sleeping with Creepy Betsy over there watching me with her little glass eyes. Put her out in the garage or something."

Parker gasped. "No!" She clutched the doll to her chest. "You can't do that to her!" She smiled down at the doll. "Anyway, I like her." 

"It's not yours, Parker," Eliot snapped. "Put it back." 

Parker pouted at him but turned to put the doll back where it came from. Hardison started to follow her, saying, "Oh, no. No, no…"

"Hardison!" Eliot snapped. He let out a breath. Realized his hands were shaking. He flexed them. Forced himself to breathe in and out again, slowly.

Hardison was approaching him cautiously, face gentle. "El? You okay?" 

Eliot didn't know. "Yeah, fine." He tried to take stock of himself. He ached. He still felt shaky. Usually he had a better awareness of himself than this, better control over his mind and his body. But he felt like his brain was running on half-speed, and his nerves were shot all to hell. "Tired," he said out loud. 

All he knew was, suddenly he didn't want to be left alone in this house. 

"Okay," Hardison said softly. He put a hand on Eliot's lower back and began rubbing. 

Eliot felt a wash of different emotions sloshing over him. He kind of wanted to press his face into Hardison's shoulder and maybe cry for a little bit. He didn't, though; just blinked and tried to steady himself. 

"You want to lie down for a minute while me and Parker get the rest of our stuff out of the van?" 

Eliot cleared his throat. "No," he said. "I gotta do a walk-through, check that everything's secure. An' then we need to figure out dinner." 

"Eliot. Babe." Hardison moved warm, heavy hands to rest on Eliot's shoulders. Eliot dragged his eyes reluctantly up to meet Hardison's. "Parker and I, we can do that stuff. We got you." 

Eliot let himself be pulled into Hardison's arms, then, and he did press his face into Hardison's solid, warm shoulder. He felt the soft fabric of Hardison's t-shirt against his cheek, breathed in the clean smell of Hardison's deodorant. He did not cry, but his head was pounding again. He felt exhausted.

He didn't hear Parker coming down the stairs, but he felt Hardison shift, felt him lift an arm and make some kind of gesture, so he wasn't surprised when he heard Parker's voice directly behind him.

"What's wrong?" she asked quietly. 

Eliot pulled away so he could look at her, trying for a weak smile. "Nothing. Just tired. An'..." he hesitated. "A little rattled."

He watched her face close a little, as she processed that, watched Hardison's get concerned. He knew Parker was sometimes hard on herself when they failed, because as much as they all worked in tandem, she was the new mastermind and held herself accountable for thinking ahead. Hell, he understood; he would always blame himself when Parker and Hardison ended up in the line of fire. But they also tried to be honest with each other, all three of them, about how they were feeling.

Hardison spoke first. "I know it's not perfect, but we just have to lie low here a few days, then we can get back to Portland and finish figuring out how to wreck this sonofabitch." 

"I know," Eliot said. "It makes sense. It's the right plan. I just…" He searched for the words and didn't find them. "I don't like it." 

"Why not?" Parker had her sharp, analytical face on now, searching him with her eyes. She trusted him, he knew, trusted his judgement and trusted that when he said something was bothering him, there was usually a very distinctive reason why. 

Problem was, he didn't know what it was that was pinging his paranoia right now. Maybe it was just exhaustion. "I don't know. Something about this house. It's making me nervous." 

Parker and Hardison were looking at him very seriously, and he felt foolish, having nothing to give them. "Look, it's stupid. It's probably nothing." 

"I thought you said there was no such thing as paranoia in your line of work," Hardison said, gently teasing. 

Eliot shrugged uncomfortably and scowled. 

“Okay,” said Parker. “We stay here for now, but we keep a lookout for Walker’s guys and if we see them, then we run.” She looked at Eliot and Hardison expectantly in turn. 

Eliot still felt uneasy, but with nothing to back up the feeling, he had to agree. "Fine."

Hardison was looking to Eliot, still all soft and serious. "Whatever you say, man. You wanna lie down now?"

Eliot felt frustrated. "I told you, I'm gonna do a walk through first. Then, _maybe_ , I'll lay down for a little bit, before dinner. But we've gotta figure that out too." 

"Man, we've got canned soup. Me and Parker might not be culinary geniuses, but we can handle heating up a couple cans."

"Damnit, Hardison, canned soup is not--"

"I know it's not Eliot food," Parker interrupted. "But Hardison’s right.” She touched his arm gently. “You need to lie down. You’ve got that ‘I’m grumpy because I’m tired and worried’ face on.”

Eliot scowled automatically at that and opened his mouth to argue, then realized he was only proving her point.

She raised her eyebrows like, _I told you so_. 

"Fine,” Eliot growled. “Just give me a few minutes to check this place out." 

"Fine with me," Hardison said quickly. "Come on, Parker, let's get the rest of the stuff from the van."

Eliot was left alone in the dusty kitchen. He pushed down the pang that sent through him. Refocused. 

He searched through each room in the house as thoroughly as he could, conscious of the fact that he was tired and liable to overlook things if he wasn't careful. Mostly he found a lot of dust. It looked like Parker was right--most of the rooms were empty, except the master bedroom and bath and the kitchen, which was stocked with a table and chairs and a few basic cooking utensils. The connected front room boasted only the single ratty sofa. 

The basement was unfinished, high windows letting in soft beams to light the concrete floor. Otherwise it was empty, but for a few stray odds and ends: a beat-up foosball table, some sheets of particle board, a plastic stepping stool. Eliot checked, and the windows facing the front of the house gave a clear view of the road, meaning that anyone inside the house would be visible through them too. He growled and searched around until he found a piece of particle board the right size and propped it up in front of the windows, then went upstairs and shut all the blinds on windows that overlooked the road.

By the time he had finished, Parker and Hardison had brought in the rest of their stuff. Two plastic grocery bags were sitting on the kitchen table, and someone had brought Eliot's duffles up to the master bedroom. Eliot was winded, like he had just run half-way across the city instead of just walking up and down a couple of flights of stairs, and his shoulder was aching from the slight strain of picking up particle board. 

“So, dinner?” he asked the empty kitchen, pitching his voice loud enough so his partners would hear it from upstairs.

“Soup!” Parker said brightly, bounding down the stairs, her ponytail swinging behind her.

Hardison followed at a more sedate pace. “I’m telling you, man, we got this. Go lay down on that hinky uh...sofa? over there and just let us handle it.”

Eliot growled but he really was exhausted, so he lowered himself down onto the ragged sofa, careful of his shoulder and his ribs, which still ached gently. He tried to ignore the cloud of dust that his movements kicked up, but it tickled his nose, making him sneeze--and then groan through clenched teeth as the movement jostled his ribs, sending a shooting, sickening pain all through his body. 

“You okay, babe?” Hardison asked from the kitchen, and Parker appeared at his side to frown down at him. 

“Yeah,” he managed. “Just my ribs.”

Parker poked a finger right in the middle of the fracture. “Is this where it hurts?”

Eliot pushed her hand away. “ _Yes_ , Parker. That’s where it hurts.”

She frowned at him some more. “You’re shoulder’s hurting too,” she announced after a moment. 

Eliot started to answer, bit his lip, then tried again. “Yeah,” he admitted. 

“You want, like, an ice pack or something?” Hardison asked. 

“They’re in my duffle bag, they’re not cold…” Eliot started, but Hardison grinned slyly and pulled two blue cold packs out of the freezer. He must have fished them out of Eliot’s bag while Eliot was busy downstairs. 

The sound died on Eliot’s lips as Hardison brought the ice packs over and put one against Eliot’s ribs, then asked which shoulder hurt, there? and gently placed the second ice pack against the spot. He ran a hand through Eliot’s hair, the gesture so achingly tender that Eliot could only blink up at him. If he had been less exhausted he would have threatened to kick Hardison’s ass, but as it was, he just felt dizzy and soft with the affection. 

Then, like it was nothing, Hardison was back in the kitchen, calling to Eliot, “What kind of soup do you want? We got spaghettios, tomato, or uh, some lemon...chicken...orzo...stuff?”

“Spaghettios ain’t…” Eliot cleared his throat. “Lemon chicken orzo.” 

“We thought you would like that one,” Parker smirked down at him, satisfied, and went to help Hardison in the kitchen.

Eliot gave up and lay his head back against the faded cushion. Behind him, through the drawn curtains, the sun was setting orange over the road, and warm orange sunlight was filtering in a dim beam onto his face. He didn’t quite sleep--just dozed, drifting in and out to the murmur of his partners’ voices in the kitchen and the setting sun and the slowly rising smell of warm soup. 

It was nice. He still wasn’t fully comfortable with this house, but he was dead tired, and. Well. He did trust Parker and Hardison. And he trusted himself to wake up ready to move if it came down to it. 

It didn't. He was jolted awake by Hardison calling, “Hey, E. Eliot. Soup’s ready,” and found that night had fallen outside. The light shining on him was all warm and yellow from the kitchen. 

Eliot lay there for a second, breathing in and out. He tried to gather his bearings. He had hoped, stupidly, that his injuries would feel better and his mind would feel sharper after getting some rest, but instead he just felt sore and bleary. 

Hardison murmured something from the kitchen, and then Parker was bending over Eliot, poking him in his thankfully uninjured side. 

“Eliot?” she said. “Hardison says it’s time to eat.”

“I heard,” Eliot grunted. He sat up stiffly, his body protesting, and the two ice packs slid off of him, warm and liquid, and landed in his lap. He rolled his shoulder experimentally and grimaced when the motion sent a wave of pain radiating out from the spot. 

Parker watched him, frowning. She picked up the ice packs, squished them between her hands, studying him. 

Eliot watched her hands move, deft and quick and clever, turning the melted blue gel over and over like a puzzle to solve. He wanted to hide the naked pain and exhaustion from her, years of good instincts shying away from being read like that, from showing hurt, but he didn't. There was no use in trying; she knew him too well, had him puzzled out like one of her locks, and what's more, she understood what she found in him, when she went looking. They were alike, like that. 

Anyway, he didn't lie to Parker. Never to her. He just looked up at her, waiting. 

"What do you need, Eliot?" she asked quietly, at last. 

There were several ways he could have interpreted that question, but Eliot went for the most direct and the most immediate answer. "Pain meds. They're in my bag." He gave her the names and descriptions of the pills he needed and she nodded once, sharply, then was off like a shot up the stairs to get them. 

Meanwhile, Eliot stood carefully and shuffled into the kitchen, let himself drop into a chair with a gritted-teeth painful thump. 

"You feelin' better, man?" asked Hardison, from where he seemed to be supervising the stove, though a single pot of soup didn't probably need that close of watching. 

Eliot grunted. 

"That good, huh?" Hardison raised an eyebrow and Eliot felt seen-through. "Well I made you some nice chicken noodle soup so maybe that'll make you feel better." 

"Lemon chicken orzo," Eliot corrected. He could smell the lemon from his seat at the table.

"Yeah, but orzo's a type of noodle, right? So it's just like fancy chicken noodle soup." 

"Orzo's a--no, orzo's not a noodle! It's a pasta, okay? But it's not a noodle."

"Pasta? Noodle?" Hardison set down the ladle in his hand and crossed his arms and looked incredulously at Eliot. 

"A _pasta_ can be any shape, but a _noodle_ is long and skinny. Orzo is a type of pasta. It's a very distinctive--" 

Eliot cut himself off as Parker came back into the room and slipped him the meds he needed and a bottle of water. He stared at the pills dubiously, trying to decide if he should get some food in his stomach before taking them.

"Whatever man, just eat your fancy chicken-ass soup," Hardison said affectionately, taking advantage of Eliot's distraction and sliding a bowl and a spoon in front of him. 

The reason Hardison had been watching the stove so closely became clear as he and Parker served themselves from a second pot, which Eliot was disappointed--but not surprised--to find was filled with spaghettios. 

Eliot made up his mind and set the pills on the table, then gingerly tried the orzo soup. It was surprisingly not bad. Overly-salty canned broth, but it was light and warm and easy to eat. 

Over dinner, they talked about plans. Hardison had found them a flight back to Portland in a few days, and three separate backup flights to Seattle, Medford, and Sacramento, in case they needed to scatter and make their way back to Portland by car. Eliot was really hoping it didn’t come to that, but it eased his mind to be prepared. 

It was getting late, and the pain meds that Eliot had finally taken were making him drowsy, but he stubbornly sat up and watched the corners and windows while the conversation turned to how they would frame the mark once they got back to Portland. He’d be damned if he let Hardison or Parker out of his sight until they were either safely back in Portland with the loose ends of this job all tied up, or else on separate flights to Hardison’s backup locations, and even then, he wouldn’t really be happy until they were all home and safe. But the conversation got circular, as there was little they could actually do about the mark while they were hiding out here, and after catching himself staring blankly at the same spot on the closed window blinds for a solid five minutes, Eliot gave up and put his head down on the table. 

“...But maybe we can finish this conversation upstairs in bed,” Hardison’s voice came, joking but a little worried. 

Eliot gave a muffled grunt of agreement, and then sat up blearily with a “ _Hey_ ,” as Parker poked him in the shoulder to get him going. 

Hardison had insisted that "Annabelle" was not sleeping in the room with them, _nuh uh, no thank you, not happening_ , so Parker had placed it directly outside the bedroom door, standing in the hallway and staring in. Eliot personally thought that this arrangement seemed way creepier than just putting the doll back in the corner of the bedroom where they’d found it, but having the doll behind a closed door seemed to placate Hardison. 

Parker and Hardison settled onto the bed, still talking about how to wreck Walker in low voices, though Hardison had made sure to turn the lights down. 

Eliot curled up on the edge of the bed between his partners and the door, groaning a little as he settled his injured shoulder and ribs so that he wasn’t putting any weight on them. Hardison, beside him, reached out a hand to rub gently at the tense spot between Eliot’s shoulders. 

“Go to sleep, Eliot,” he said softly. 

“Don’t worry,” Parker chimed in from across the bed. “If any of Walker’s men come to kill us in the night, Annabelle will let us know.”

“Annabelle? The _doll_?” Eliot groaned, but the complete confidence in her voice and the slightly skewed logic was so very Parker that despite himself, he felt his body relax. 

He was asleep in barely a minute.


End file.
